The Talk
by RainyDaysAnyways
Summary: It's about as messed-up a sex talk as you'd expect when you're trapped on a train with Miss Manners, the District 12 drunk, and the girl you're fake-engaged to. Peeta needs a drink, or three. One-shot. Written for Day 4 of Prompts in Panem's Everlark Week, focusing on the Victory Tour.


I'm just over a thousand miles from District 12, flying through Panem at breakneck speed, and Haymitch Abernathy is fixing me a drink.

The rich amber liquid keeps _glug-glug-glugging_ out as he pours, filling the tumbler to the brim. I would protest, but I'm kind of taken aback by my mentor's generosity. It's not like Haymitch to waste good whiskey. I'm not much of a drinker. But then, no one is quite the drinker Haymitch is.

We sit across from one another in the dining car that's been our makeshift living room, office, and bar for the past couple weeks. Finally, the Victory Tour—a cruel name for a cruel endeavor—is almost over. We're going home.

My eyes are transfixed by the millimeter or so of liquid that domes above the rim of the glass. I watch it ripple and roll with the movement of the train. I keep expecting at any moment that the surface tension will break, sending the contents spilling down to soak the linen napkins that Effie made such show of ordering the Avoxes to lay out for us.

You'd think that after all we've been through, she would have given up on protecting the mahogany table. Between Haymitch's drinking and Katniss's knifeplay, its scrapes and scars rival my own.

At least it has its original legs.

Haymitch nudges the tumbler toward me, and the spell is broken. The whiskey sloshes back and forth before cresting the rim of the glass. The saturated edges of the napkin leaves a trail of honey-colored liquor in their wake. I go to grab one of the dry cloths neatly folded in a stack at my elbow. If Haymitch hadn't dismissed the Avox, things would have been cleaned up before any of us even had a chance to notice a mess. I dab at the spill. I feel better doing it myself.

"You're gonna be wanting that," Haymitch informs me, nodding to the glass.

We're alone.

Ten minutes earlier, the car had been full. Effie was barking instructions about our homecoming outfits—something about marabou trim, if that's even a thing—and other preparations for the celebratory dinner at Mayor Undersee's house. Katniss was sullen and openly ignoring her, playing with the stems of cherries that lay abandoned by the bar, braiding them together, tying them in knots. I was doing my best to listen, though I was more occupied stealing glances at Katniss, fretting over the circles under her eyes and worrying at how quiet she'd been since morning.

As always, Haymitch was drinking, and the Avoxes were working hard to keep pace with him.

Effie had moved from fashion to some other inane detail, I think the arrangement of our families on the platform at the station, when, without warning, Haymitch slammed down his glass, sending ice cubes flying, and said, "Are we gonna do this or not?"

Effie sniffed indignantly at the manner of interruption. A long look passed between them, and she seemed to relent.

She tottered over to where Katniss had moved on to arranging lemon rinds in an unsteady pyramid. Effie placed one of her expertly manicured hand on Katniss's shoulder. Her nails reminded me of talons. Maroon and black zebra-striped talons.

"Katniss, dear," Effie cooed. "I think it's time you and I have a little talk. _Just us girls._"

Katniss didn't have time to make excuses before she was marched in the direction of the parlor car. I have to hand it to Effie. She's more forceful than those teetering ankles and that pink pile of curls atop her head might make her appear.

Just as the door opened to their exit, Katniss turned to me and mouthed, _"Help."_

But I'm not sure which one of us is in greater need of it. Because now I'm stuck here with Haymitch, and I think I know what's coming.

Or rather, he does.

He slides a square foil package across the table between us.

"Know what this is?" he asks.

I'm not sure if it's a rhetorical question. I'm 17 years old. I have two older brothers. I've just come from the Capitol. Of course I know what it is. They're not common in the districts, and they're rather expensive, but every teenage boy in Panem would recognize the shape and glimmer of that packaging.

It represents hope.

Haymitch drums his his fingers impatiently. "Well?"

"Y-yes, _obviously!_" I feel the blush searing up my neck.

He just stares back at me, intent on a more complete answer.

Why do I feel that if it were Haymitch and Katniss, they'd manage to do this all telepathically? It's like he's trying to torture me.

I decide I'd better take that drink. The whiskey burns, and my face screws up involuntarily at the lingering fumes. It tastes absolutely toxic. I wonder how long it took Haymitch to actually like the stuff.

Still, there's a reason they call it liquid courage.

"It's a _condom_, Haymitch. You use it to prevent pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases. It has an 82 to 98 percent effectiveness rate depending on how careful you are about using them every time."

This knowledge is drilled into us by our health teachers. Birth control is critical when most of the people in your District live in poverty. Unfortunately, knowing about contraception and being able to afford it are two different things. When my brothers turned 17, my mother saved to be sure each of them got a full box of condoms, a gift that was awkwardly delivered by our father.

Thinking about my family reminds me of the big, empty house waiting for me in 12. I didn't have a 17th birthday party. Instead I've got the District drunk playing name-that-barrier-method on the train ride home from a nationwide tour of grief. At least he's keeping my glass full.

Haymitch flicks one corner of the foil packet with his forefinger, and it spins lazily in place.

"Score one for the baker boy!" he says sarcastically, taking a long sip of whiskey.

He points a finger in my face. "Question two. Do you know how to get it on your..." his finger makes air circles toward the general vicinity of my lap "...cinnamon stick?"

I'm insulted. He could have at least said baguette.

"Of course," I rush to reply, before he can go rummaging around the fruit bowl—or worse—to provide a demonstration.

"I figured you and Sweetheart for smarter than you look," he says.

Oh, god. Of course Haymitch thinks we've... Probably everyone in Panem does. They know I've been in love with her since I was five years old. They think that she's in love with me. I proposed to her on national television, and she accepted.

"No," I have to correct him. It's a painful admission. "I've never—we've never—_no._"

So much for Star-Crossed Lovers.

Haymitch raises his eyebrows, unbelieving.

Then—is that pity in his eyes? He knows our history better than anyone else. Knows the trouble we're in, even now. There are much heavier things to pity me for than my unrequited love for Katniss Everdeen.

I take a long drink of the whiskey, suppressing the reflex to spit it out, and drain the glass. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, no longer bothering with the linen napkins.

"Effie said she saw you leaving the girl's room this morning."

I inhale sharply. Across from me, Haymitch pours another. The swaying of the train seems amplified, and I put a hand on the table to steady myself.

I'm not sure how I can explain last night.

It was a way to stave off the nightmares, the flashbacks to the arena, the faces that haunt us in the dark. Rue. Cato. Foxface. Marvel. Thresh. The girl I killed whose name I didn't even know, whose parents I had to face with no good explanation as to why their daughter is in the ground while I still breathe. I haven't slept soundly since coming back from the Games. I'm not sure I've really come back, not completely. And if it's possible, Katniss is even worse. Holding each other... we could finally find some peace.

If anyone else could understand this, the aftermath of what we've been through, I suppose it would be our similarly deranged mentor.

I take another drink. My stomach is warm and fluttery. It's a nice feeling. There's nothing nice about what I have to say.

"I heard her screaming." I cringe at the memory. "So I went to her compartment. She was having a nightmare. She was panicked, her eyes..." It hurts too much to think of her that way. I finish the second glass and when I go to set it down, it slips from my fingers, dropping onto the floor and shattering. "I couldn't leave her."

Haymitch doesn't say anything for a long time. But he does get me a fresh drink.

I feel dizzy. I'm not sure if it's the alcohol or my unresolved feelings about my pretend-fiancee and the all damage we've borne, and all the damage we've done.

Finally, Haymitch breaks the silence. "I don't like this any more than you do."

I'm not sure exactly which part he's referring to. This talk, or the tour, or the nation that exercises its power by sending children to kill other children for sport.

He pours his own drink, and we clink glasses. These rituals are all new to me. I watch how he uses his wrist to swish the ice cubes around in his glass before tipping it back. He exhales with what could be either great pleasure or great relief.

"Katniss's mother came to me before the tour," he confesses, "and I promised her that I'd have this talk with you, whenever the time came."

My elbows are resting on the table, and I lower my head into my hands. My fingers push the waves—so carefully gelled and tussled into place by my prep team—off my sweaty forehead. Damn. Even Katniss's mother expected we'd be hooking up on this trip? I'm torn between feeling mortified and pathetic.

I might as well go home wearing a t-shirt that says, "I went to the Capitol and all I got was fake-engaged."

"Haymitch..." I say. I don't recognize my voice. It's slow and slurred and on the verge of breaking. "You know it's all pretend."

He should know. He helped us plan it, advised us on how to make it believable. I think of the way Katniss nodded, her face all lit up, when she said "Yes." Everything—the angle of her chin, the choreography of smile and nod, the way she closed her eyes for just the briefest moment—all Haymitch's coaching.

As if he can read my thoughts he says, "Yeah, but I didn't tell Sweetheart to start having sleepovers."

I would speak up to reassure him that sex was the furthest thing from my mind last night, if my tongue didn't feel so heavy from drink. And if it was entirely true.

I can't explain all the reasons I went to Katniss's compartment, or pretend to know why she asked me to stay. I know why, for years, I would have _wanted_ that, more than anything. To lie beside her. To see her dark hair splayed out across my chest. To feel the pins and needles in my arm from the weight of her head nuzzled against me.

She was there with me—_not someone else_—our limbs entangled, our fingers intertwined. It was what I'd wanted since I was old enough to understand want.

But whatever bonds actually lie between me and Katniss now, they've gotten pretty well twisted and fucked-up by what we've been through. First the Games, now everything that's happened with the uprisings and Snow. Katniss will be bound to me, and I to her. In our own quiet ways, we're each dreading it.

I hate that we're pretending, because I know that I can really love her.

If I thought that showing her that possibility—taking her in my arms and pressing hot kisses into her skin and moving together until we cry each others' names and she knows my love—would make her fears go away—or even just offer a dram of comfort—I would do it in a heartbeat.

If only she would say the words.

Say them in the stillness of her compartment, on the narrow bed that we share, where there's no one but us to hear them. Whisper them so quietly that I know that she means them.

But last night was the final one on the train. We'll be in District 12 by the evening. Home, surrounded by neighbors and friends. _And cousins. And Capitol camera crews._

I raise the glass to my lips, forgetting that I've already emptied it. I pull an ice cube into my mouth and hold it in my cheek. I run my tongue along it absentmindedly until it melts to nothing.

I realize I've been staring down at the broken glass on the floor for a good five minutes. I'm glad it's Haymitch with me now, because he doesn't seem to expect, or even have a taste for, conversation.

"You and the girl have plans later?" he finally grunts.

_Obviously_. The fete at the mayor's house is compulsory for all of us. He must mean something else.

Because I lived so long with my brothers' teasing, I should have about five different smart-ass remarks I could shoot back. But my head feels fuzzy, like someone's in there erasing the words as I call them to mind.

I'm left with one crystal-clear truth: I don't know what the future holds for me and Katniss.

I see a meaty hand reach for my glass—or maybe it is four hands, my vision is beginning to blur—and replace it with two white tabs of aspirin and a shiny foil package.

I hear the tinkling of glass, and then I'm hit by the smell of the wastebasket as the shards are disposed. Haymitch runs the tap. He hands me a cup of water on a fresh linen napkin, careful not to spill a drop. He gathers up an armload of bottles, ready to begin the real drinking back in his own compartment. There will be none of this Capitol liquor once we're back in 12.

"You're gonna be wanting that," Haymitch instructs. "The pills now, the other thing... someday."

When he claps me on the shoulder on his way out, my head screams in protest. The world seems to be spinning around me, and all I want to do is lay down. Alone.

I vaguely register Haymitch calling to me as he steps outside the car.

"Good talk, boy."

_**A/N:** I would be remiss not to give full credit for "cinnamon stick" to BleedToLoveHer. If that part made you laugh, please send your love her way._


End file.
